1

Chapter 1

The usual silence of the Preston manor was interrupted by the sharp ring of the telephone. It wasn't often that the phone rang, and when it did, it usually meant something important. I put down the duster I was using and picked up the receiver, greeting the caller with practiced politeness.

"Good morning. How may I be of assistance?"

"Carlton!" Mr. Preston's familiar voice boomed from the other end. "You may have heard about Richard finishing his studies."

I lightly smacked my forehead, suddenly recalling that he'd mentioned something about his son's upcoming graduation. "Yes, sir. I believe I heard about it," I replied, trying to mask my forgetfulness.

"Good, good. Don't worry—you don't have to do anything," he said. "I've already hired an event planner. She'll be arriving there today to inspect the venue. Her name is Ashley."

"Understood, sir," I said, quickly making a mental note of the name.

"And Carlton," Mr. Preston continued, "Richard will be arriving tomorrow morning. Please make sure his room is ready for occupancy."

"Certainly, sir," I replied. After exchanging goodbyes, I returned the handset to its cradle.

Richard is coming home.

The realization left me feeling unsettled. We had been close when we were younger, but time and distance had made us strangers. The last time I saw him was five years ago. It was a memorable encounter, though not exactly a pleasant one.

As I headed upstairs to prepare his room, the doorbell rang. That must be the event planner. I straightened my posture and opened the door expecting to see a neatly dressed woman. Instead, I found a tall, muscular man in a plain white shirt.

My gaze landed on his broad chest before I realized I had to look up—way up—to meet his face. There was something familiar about his features, though the black sunglasses obscured his eyes. He looked like a supermodel trying to go incognito.

Did Ashley sent him? Or Mr. Preston assumed that Ashley was a girl's name? To find out which is which, I asked him.

"Ashley?" I asked hesitantly, feeling slightly ridiculous.

The man scoffed, clearly unimpressed. "No." he replied.

"Then may I ask who you are?" I said, trying to sound more composed.

"Really, Carl? It's only been five years, and you've already forgotten me?"

I cursed at myself mentally. . This couldn't be Richard. I barely recognized him! My mind scrambled to reconcile the awkward teenager I remembered with the man standing in front of me. He had grown taller, broader, and exuded a confidence that was slightly unsettling.

"I—" I shut my gaping mouth and put on my neutral face. "I apologize, sir. Your father mentioned you'd be arriving tomorrow morning."

He handed me his bag and stepped inside as though he owned the place—which, technically, he did. "What's wrong with being early?"

"Nothing, sir. Welcome home," I said, forcing a smile.

"Jeez, why are you calling me 'sir' when you're older than me? You used to call me Richie or whatever when we were younger." he said with a sarcastic smirk.

"I was advised to address everyone formally, sir," I replied stiffly. "It's simply protocol."

He took off his glasses and hooked them onto his shirt. "By who? Robert? You actually took that old boomer seriously?" he said, chuckling.

"Mr. Robert trained me well, sir. He prepared me to manage the household before he retired." My tone was clipped, but I refused to let his flippant comment rile me up.

"Whatever," he muttered, biting his lip as though suppressing another jab. "So, what are you now? The head butler?"

"At your service, sir," I replied with a slight bow. "Or should I call you Richie?"

"God, no." He winced. "I can't imagine anyone calling me that now."

I watched as his gaze swept over the foyer, his expression unreadable. He was no longer the Richard I remembered. There was an edge to him now, something sharper, more guarded. Any fondness I felt for him before quickly faded when he insulted Robert, one of the very people who had practically raised him when his parents were not present.

Without waiting for an invitation, he headed for the staircase. My stomach dropped as I realized his room wasn't ready. I hurried to catch up.

"Are you hungry, sir? Perhaps I could prepare a snack while you rest?" I offered, hoping to buy myself some time to get everything ready.

"No, thanks. I'm tired. I just want to sleep," he said, not slowing his stride.

I bit my lip, realizing I had no choice but to tell him the truth. "I apologize, sir, but your room isn't fully prepared yet as we were expecting your arrival tomorrow"

He halted mid-step, turning to face me with a piercing look "Are you saying that I'm showing up unannounced at my own house?"

"No, sir. You're simply... early," I explained carefully. "If you'd wait in the living room, I could—"

"I told you, I'm tired," he interrupted, his voice sharp with irritation.

"I'm sorry, sir, but—"

"If that's the case, I'll just sleep in your room," he said, his tone shifting to something almost playful. "I'm sure it's tidy."

"You mean... the servant's quarters? I wouldn't recommend it, sir. That's where I sleep."

"And?" He raised an eyebrow. "Is that a problem for you?"

I shook my head quickly. "No, sir. My room is also your room. I just thought you might find it uncomfortable sleeping in someone else's bed."

"Not at all," he replied with a sly grin, lightly tapping my cheek twice. "And please, don't call it the servant's quarter, you made it sound like we have slaves in the basement."

We went down on the ground floor and went left of the kitchen until we reached my room. I opened the door and welcomed Richard inside. He was right, my room is actually decent. It was spacious and furnished enough to pass as one of their guest room.

He surveyed the space and nodded approvingly. "Not bad. This'll do."

He immediately plopped himself on the bed and sighed contentedly. His large frame almost occupying the whole  mattress. I placed his bag on a chair near the door.

"Would that be all sir?" I inquired as a final courtesy.

"Yes, yes, that will be all," he replied, eyes closed. I was about to leave the room when he spoke again. "You still with your girlfriend?"

I froze, my chest tightening. "Pardon, sir?" I acted as though I didn't hear his question.

"You heard me. Are you still with her?" he repeated, his tone casual but invasive.  And to think that I thought he has already forgotten about our last encounter.

"No, sir," I answered quietly.

"Glad to hear that. I don't want to sleep on some cum-stained sheets." he said casually before covering himself with my blanket.

I nearly gasped at the crude remark but managed to compose myself enough to step out and close the door behind me.

As I stood in the hallway, my face burned with embarrassment and irritation. Five years had changed him, no doubt. He was taller, more self-assured, and infinitely more infuriating.

Should I even be surprised? I was hoping he'd forgotten about that incident but clearly he still remembers it. Still, he's grown far more rude and crass than I could have imagined.

But one thing was certain—Richard Preston had become even more impossible to deal with.